


Don't Cross the Streams

by ljs



Series: Investigations and Acquisitions [10]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Acknowledgements go to: Joss Whedon and Co; the BBC and Russell T Davies; a classic of contemporary cinematic comedy (rest in peace, Harold Ramis); also, David Bowie and Lou Reed. Rather enormous liberties have been taken with an incident from modern English history, as well.<br/>SUMMARY: This is an Investigations and Acquisitions story (set three years after the I&A "Postern of Fate"); all you need to know is that we went AU after Season 7 "Showtime," and Giles and Anya (married now and with a young son) live in London and run their own private occult-services firm. For <i>Doctor Who</i>, spoilers through "Doomsday."</p><p>When worlds and time collide... who you gonna call?</p><p>(Written in 2007.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Night rain, cold and hard, strikes at their study windows. Anya ordinarily would find the pleasant sound soothing (since she and her loved ones are safe and warm inside), except – "Darling, are you sure you’re all right?" Rupert says for the second time in three minutes.

She stretches very carefully so as not to disturb the newly medicated flesh wounds on her hands and knees, casts a maternal glance at little David on the Aubusson flipping through his picture-book, and then settles deeper into the sofa. "Yes, honey, except for the lingering pain and aches. Why?"

Rupert puts his hand on her forehead as if he’s checking for fever. "Well, I just put _Diamond Dogs_ on the stereo and you didn’t even complain... er, I meant ‘comment,’ of course."

Inside, she’s smiling despite itching and pain. Outside, she plays as innocent as she can, because it’s important he doesn’t suspect. "Would you put on music I like if I complained?"

That attractive half-grin – it’s like he can’t decide how amused he is – quirks his mouth. "Probably not. But that’s never stopped you before."

"Ha ha, funny guy," she says in her usual manner, and closes her eyes.

David Bowie is singing, which used to annoy her, but not tonight. No, tonight it makes her happy, even though she’s got to be careful.

Rupert touches her cheek gently, then moves away – toward his desk, she thinks, he’s got his own things to do. She senses the change in light, feels a shift –

In her mind she hears a strange alien sound, a travelling sound that overtakes the Bowie, and a falsely cheerful male voice saying, "Don’t cross the streams...."

..........................................................

She was fifteen minutes late. She hated being late. Also, it was going to start raining any minute, and she’d left her umbrella at the office and had only a silk scarf as potential protection.

She dodged a fat Oxford Street pigeon, shouldered past a tourist, and then began to jog toward the Investigations and Acquisitions office. Not that Rupert would mind doubling up on childcare and professional duties a little longer, but she felt guilty – too long with Dawn and Zoe at lunch, and a side-trip to a new boutique selling vintage clothing. She hadn’t bought anything, but still, she’d slacked on her jobs.

An alley shortcut beckoned ahead. She ordinarily wouldn’t take it, what with the garbage and the smells worse than several massacres she’d attended, but if it was a matter of time saved, she didn’t have much choice.

Even as she took the turn, however, she slowed. Inside the alley a sound had overtaken the traffic and pedestrian noise and the construction racket from a block over, shaking time itself: a strange alien sound, a travelling sound....

She almost smacked right into the old-fashioned blue police box which materialized in front of her.

Allowing herself to thump the side of the police box – only one, and with the heel of her hand to minimize damage to herself or to this random teleportation device – she sidled around it on her way to Gilbert Place.

Or, rather, she _would_ have sidled by except the door to the police box flew open, and an artfully tousled man appeared. "Hello, hello!" he said with apparent delight, and bounced outside on his scruffy tennis shoes, which Anya didn’t think really went with his brown pinstripes and overcoat. Cheerfully: "My instrumentation’s a little over-sensitive at the moment... Is this 1974?"

"Sorry, it’s 2006." She made another move toward sidling, but was caught by his surprisingly strong hand. "Um, mister, let go of me."

"Oh right, sorry," he said. There couldn’t have been less remorse in his voice, however, and in fact he didn’t let go. "It _is_ London?"

"Hands off or I’ll hit you very hard, and in a place you won’t like," she said. When he finally let go, with a smile he no doubt thought was disarming, she added, "London, yes. November 8, 2006."

His grin took over his whole face. "Excellent! Pinpoint control! Except for the thirty-two years." He caressed his police box in a worryingly affectionate way before looking back at her. This time, although he was smiling, she had the distinct impression he was assessing her. Yes – "Do you know, there’s something rather different about you."

Stung, she couldn’t help saying, "Look who’s talking – an overdressed, kind of ferret-faced guy who materializes with a teleportation device that not only looks out of date but apparently can’t hit its target within three decades."

She was almost free when he said, "Well, not exactly – but ‘teleportation’? You know about that?"

"Yes. It’s travel in space without moving in space. I used to be able to do it." The only time she missed that old skill was when she, Rupert, and David were taking a commercial flight, which she considered akin to prison-camp and possibly a vengeance-wish on all humans. But she didn’t like to think about those vengeance-days, she didn’t know why she’d mentioned it now. "Okay, anyway, I need to get going–"

"No, hang on, hang on." He moved very fast. Ferret-fast, she thought again, although she did admit it was oddly attractive. Far too close: "Did you travel dimensionally or temporally?"

"Dimensionally. But I can’t do it any more, so bye–"

" _No_." This time he caught her before she could clear the police box/teleportation device. "I just... who _are_ you?"

Business instincts battled with good sense, and sense lost. She whipped out one of her business cards and dropped it into his outstretched hand. "Anya Jenkins Giles of Giles and Jenkins, Investigations and Acquisitions. You need something acquired, I’m the person to call."

"You _acquire_ things," he said with that insane cheer. "Oh, that’s handy. Let’s see...the extraordinary, found and explained. Brilliant!"

"To be honest, I primarily find things," she said. "My husband explains them."

"Husband?"

"Yes. My husband Rupert is the Investigations part. And he’s waiting for me in Gilbert Place, along with our very young son, so–"

"Ah, well, I do my own explaining. And your husband and child can wait. I’ve got business for you, it shouldn’t take very long." He dropped her card into his suit pocket and latched onto her again, at which somehow she found herself being pulled toward the open door.

"Wait. You wait." She leaned back, trying to slow the momentum. She was thinking back– "You said ‘temporally’?"

"Mm. Time-travel. This–" he touched the blue police box with his free hand– "is mine."

"But it apparently only gets you within thirty-two years of where you’re going," she was compelled to point out. "I have my own life and family and work here, I can’t be running around the multiverse in a time-challenged police box!"

"The piercing quality of the voice...it’s uncanny, really it is. I know this is a parallel universe, but have you ever been an Australian air stewardess, Anya Jenkins Giles?"

She was closer to the threshold, no matter how she resisted. "What? No. Human, vengeance demon, human again. And sales and acquisition specialist."

"Vengeance demon–"

" _Used_ to be. I chose differently. Can you get to the exposition?"

He said, "Right. I just never heard of... Well, after all, this isn’t my universe. Only two more cracks in the Void-walls left for me to close down. I’ve got to keep everything separate in order to keep all worlds safe. Has to be done." He smiled again, but this time she could see something hollow behind the cheer, a deep-space emptiness. "Anyway, anyway, someone from your world slipped through to my side of the Void, won a teleportation device and a bit of our old Celestial Intervention Agency tech in a high-stakes game, and it seems he’s exploited one of those cracks and gone back to his own place and time –1974– to use the tech. Or misuse it." The smile grew, taking over his face again, and it was colder than anything she’d seen before. "I don’t take kindly to humans trying to destroy their world in any universe."

Sighing, Anya yanked her arm free. "Great, a gambler on the run. What do you expect me to do?"

"I reckon an acquisitions specialist would be able to tell rightness from wrongness – the trigger-tech’s likely disguised as another object, you see. I don’t suppose that idiot Lord Lucan even knows what power he’s got. So I’d like your eyes in the search, Anya Jenkins Giles." Before she could protest, he said, "Just for a bit, just long enough to save the world."

"Oh, great. You had to phrase it like that." She rubbed her forehead, but it didn’t make either the blue police box or the ethical imperative go away. Damn it, saving the world was often so complicated, and of course it was always pro bono work, too. She didn’t have a choice, though. "Fine. Fine fine fine. Just let me call my husband, let him know I’ll be late. Later."

"You might not tell him exactly where we’re going. Saves difficult explanations," the man said.

"Hello, do I look stupid? That’s a rhetorical question, don’t answer."

While the cheerful ferret-man bounced idly, looking around the nasty alley, she got her mobile from her handbag and punched in ‘Rupert, work’. He answered on the second ring, and at the sound of his warm voice she almost sniffled. However, onward: "Honey, honey, I’m so sorry I’m late, and I’m even sorrier I’m going to be a little later."

"I can have you back here before you left, you know," the man said brightly.

She covered the phone. "With this device? I’m not counting on it." Then, into the phone, over the ferret-man’s splutters about disrespect and TARDISes or whatever: "I forgot an appointment – I need to look at a thing, a rare object, it could be important."

"I can handle everything here, darling, and Andrew’s just come in... but I don’t remember your mentioning an appointment today."

"Um, sorry. Must have slipped my mind. Because I forgot." She covered the phone again, and hissed, "What’s your name? I’ve got to give Rupert _something_."

"What? Oh, of course." The man smiled again. "I’m the Doctor."

"Sure you are." She shrugged, then said into the phone, "I’ve got an appointment with a doctor."

"Anya, are you all right?"

"Yes, honey, pay attention. It’s just business, and I’ll be back here soon as I can."

" _Here_?"

Curses, curses, Rupert was too clever, he could almost always tell she was lying – "To the office, I mean. Bye, I love you and David so much, I’ll be thinking of you." Before he could speak again and distract her from her task, she blew a kiss into the phone and turned it off. "Okay, Doctor. Let’s get going on this stupid mission."

The only saving grace, she thought, was that she got inside the police box before it really started raining.

........................................

"More tea?" the Doctor said absently, his hands flying over the controls of his...TARDIS? Whatever.

"I’m good, thanks." Anya set her cup on the wire not-quite-a-table – just part of this green control room which felt almost alive, its walls shimmering with the contraction and expansion of time – and picked up her notebook and pencil again. "Do you think you’ll actually hit 1974 this time?"

So far they’d dropped into 2009, 1955, and for no reason whatsoever, 1542. She would have cried hot angry tears if she thought it’d have done any good, which it wouldn’t.

"I told you, it’s not the TARDIS’s fault. She’s still adjusting to the secondary Time Vortex power-supply I managed to rig up. Last Time Lord standing finally remembers his artron energy lessons after all..." His hands lifted away from the controls. When he wasn’t in motion, he looked depressed; even the little spikes in his hairdo sagged.

Trying to cheer them both up, she said, "Yes, well, technology makes little sense to me. Give me magic any day, Doctor."

He grinned, hopped once or twice on those dumb sneakers. "Because you understand the rules of magic, Anya?"

"Some magic, yes." She looked down at the page where she’d scrawled information about the missing tech: the size of a man’s palm, possibly; its original shape like the tool the Doctor had shown her, his ‘sonic screwdriver’, which looked obnoxiously phallic to her; ‘ energy emanations,’ whatever those were. She did have some potion-powder in her purse, though, Rupert sometimes used it for testing objects... At the thought of love and home, she sighed, then said briskly, "Tell me again what your plan is."

"Plan? I don’t _plan_. I improvise." He grinned again, which was incredibly irritating. She now understood why Rupert exploded sometimes when she beamed after explaining herself. Anyway–

"Fine. I don’t improvise well. So we’re going to November 8, 1974 – is there significance in that date?"

"Mm. Didn’t I tell you?"

"Only in the vaguest terms. I like specifics."

"Right." He leaned back against a convenient pillar. "Do you know the history of the famous Richard Bingham, Seventh Earl of Lucan, and the night of November 8, 1974?"

"No."

He surveyed her. "Right, you’d likely have been too young to remember–"

"No, I was just busy. Go ahead with your story."

Although he looked like he wanted to question her further, he said mildly enough, "Mm. Lord Lucan was a gambler, ran with a dangerous crowd – including, I might add, some charming people who wanted to overthrow the English government, likely with violence. Not that I’m interested in civil squabbles, so boring...anyway, the official story is that on November 8 in 1974 he killed his children’s nanny when he was actually trying to kill his wife, and then disappeared."

Anya blinked away thoughts of blood and vengeance for a wronged woman and focussed on action. "So, we’re going back to save the nanny?"

Now the Doctor looked sad on the surface as well as underneath. "No. No, we can’t interfere in what happened the first time."

"We just let her _die_? What the hell kind of mission is that? What kind of justice?"

He pushed himself away from the pillar and began to circle his control room, spinning in place as he walked -- she wondered if he was trying to spin away his own failures as he moved. "Look, Anya, we don’t... we’re not going back to change the past. It happened, it's a fixed point in time, and it’s not to be altered that way. We can’t save the ones gone..." He stopped as if he’d tasted something awful.

She kind of felt like the same way, thinking of lives lost because of her. "I do get that. I’m sorry."

He pivoted toward her and spread his hands. "We’re going back to stop Lord Lucan from giving his ill-wishing friends a weapon they have no business with, they have no understanding of. We’re going back so this idiot doesn’t change time – or more like, end it." This time when he smiled, his effort in faking cheer showed. "As they say, ‘Don’t cross the streams.’"

That seemed vaguely familiar. "Is that a quote from a movie?"

"Yes! _Ghostbusters_. Brilliant film, vastly underrated." Grin, bounce, mourning underneath.

She suddenly wanted to wrap him up and feed him like she did David when he was fussy, when he’d lost his baa or his most precious whatever. The Doctor could probably do with a digestive biscuit or two as well, he was too skinny.

But before she could do anything foolish and care-taking, the TARDIS stopped. "Here we go," he said cheerfully. "Let’s see where we are!"

He glanced at the instrumentation – "looks all right" – then hopped over and opened the door. Through the opening Anya could see night shot with brightness, smell more garbage, hear a noise that sounded like rain, mixed with music that she knew... David Bowie, she thought. Rupert played his stuff all the time just to annoy her.

"Warehouse," the Doctor said. "Warehouses, quarries, spaceships... sometimes I feel as if I visit the same places over and over again."

As he disappeared out the door, Anya tucked notebook and pencil back into her handbag, grabbed it (because she thought it could come in useful), and scrambled to follow.

Yep, they were in the interior of a warehouse. Old and disused, as far as she could tell – or used by squatters, as was suggested by piles of bedding and clothes and trash along one wall, and a side-door open to what must be a not-very-clean toilet. Overhead one lonely light flickered, and the huge doors on the far wall were open to the cold and rain. Of course it was raining. "We must be in London, all right."

The Doctor had crouched to look at something on the floor. "Mmm. 1974 was a very wet autumn, as I recall...here, Anya, look at this."

"Have you found the trigger-tech already?" She trotted over to join him.

"No, no. But this looks like the teleportation device Lord Lucan stole from that stupid Celestial Intervention Agent."

"You said ‘won.’"

"I’m reliably informed he cheated." The Doctor poked at the remnants: looked like plastic, probably round in its first incarnation, with alien energy-traces wafting up into damp English air. "Right. This is dead now – Lucan wouldn’t have known how to use it properly, he’s burnt it up."

"Which means you’ll have to take him away in the TARDIS?" she said absently. The music was louder now – but from nearby. Almost the end of the song, she thought, and there was something about this space... "If you leave him here in this time, you’ll cross the streams?"

"Got it in one." He smiled up at her.

She smiled back, but still without full attention. The concrete floor – it was marked with something, which looked familiar. When she went over and bent down, she could see the ashes and salt, smell the lost fire. A step back, a look around, and she said, "Doctor, we’re in the middle of a circle. Somebody’s been casting spells here."

"Magic?"

"Yep. Would some random intersection of magic and technology lead Lucan to this particular location?"

"You mean, if it’s 1974... that’s why we’re here, wherever here is, rather than Belgravia. Unorthodox, but it could be. As I said–"

"It’s not your universe. I heard you the first time."

The rain outside had slowed: a dank mist now, rather than actual drops. The song, even as it ended, sounded louder, and then a barely distinguishable disk-jockey voice said something about London pirate radio, and November 8 and 1974.

"There we are! Right place, right time. We’ve got to find Lord Lucan." He bounded to his feet, then headed for the door.

Hitching her bag over her shoulder, she tripped after him. "Okay, Doctor, do you have any idea which way to go to find this cheating gambler-guy? Or is this just a get-out-of-the-TARDIS-and-walk-around-randomly-til-you-get-lucky policy?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "You’re quite sure your name is not now or ever has been Tegan Jovanka?"

"Positive, and your question is beginning to annoy me."

He stopped in the doorway without warning, and she ran into his back. "Oops," he said without heat, then pointed up and then to the right.

_Thameside Dock Space Available_ , read a tattered banner stretched on the warehouse opposite. And to the right, skirting shadow and puddles, walked a nicely suited man, older and white-headed, with an aristocratic assurance which reminded Anya unpleasantly of Jools Siviter.

"Lord Lucan?" she said, just to check.

"I reckon," the Doctor said. "He’s aged, of course, running around the multiverse. Happens to the best of us. Well, not to _me_ exactly, but–"

Without saying anything else, he took off running after that Lucan peer-person.

Of course Anya had to follow.

As she ran, she thought longingly of what she could be doing at home, instead of sprinting in her work heels down a dark, mud-puddled strip of asphalt. She also noticed bits and pieces as she went by: the sagging, holey fences, the empty warehouses with signs hanging halfway down. The Docklands restoration was several years away, she remembered. This place would be ripe for mischief, if not actual evil.

Lord Lucan was in fact old, and so it only took a few yards to catch up to him. The Doctor got him by the back of the jacket, then pulled him into a deeper strip of shadow. Avoiding the potential witnesses as well as the light, she realised: across the way was a quite occupied warehouse, its doors half-open, spilling out light and voices and the pirate radio station noise.

"Hello there," the Doctor said. "Lord Lucan, I presume?" The man didn’t answer, possibly because an alien being was pulling his jacket so tightly he could barely speak. "We really can’t let you do this."

"I don’t believe...I know you," Lord Lucan gasped in an all too familiar way.

"Oh my God, you’re _just_ like Jools -- except that not even Jools would kill his children’s nanny. Probably," Anya said. "Doctor, would you like me to frisk him for the trigger-tech?"

Even in the dark the Doctor’s smile shone, cold as the rain. "What an excellent idea, Anya."

Much as she didn’t enjoy the job, she did it thoroughly – clothing to crevices, no matter how the man squirmed. "Nothing there," she said, standing up and wiping her hands on Lord Lucan’s jacket.

The Doctor said, "Where is the trigger-tech, my lord? Actually, is that what one calls an earl? I don’t usually like to use titles that way..."

Lord Lucan didn’t say anything, so Anya volunteered, "Yes, that’s right – I had to learn for business purposes. So, if he doesn’t have it, I’d say there are two options. One, he’s already handed it off–"

"Oh, I don’t think he’s done that. Do you, my lord?"

Lord Lucan still didn’t say anything. However, best as Anya could tell, he was turning sort of purple.

Still with that chilling cheer, the Doctor yanked him higher on his toes. "Two, he’s left it hidden in the warehouse from which we’ve just come. What do you think, Anya?"

"I think..." What was going to be her agreement trailed off when she looked back down the alley-equivalent.

A male figure, tall and broad-shouldered and heavy-booted, was heading toward the warehouse with the TARDIS. There was something really familiar about his walk, the way he held a sparking lit cigarette in his left hand and a backpack slung over his right shoulder, even though she couldn’t quite see his face.

"I think we might be in trouble." She nudged the Doctor’s arm so he would look that way.

He glanced at the figure, then said easily, "Oh, just a little trouble. Nothing to worry about."

From the nearer warehouse, the one just across the way, came laughter and a rattle of metal – sounded like a body had hit the door. Yep, the door swung further open: one body, face-down on the ground. Dead, looked like.

In the cracks of the doors Anya could see a woman: tall, dressed in flowing black to match her hair, seeming to dance to the music on the radio. "My Spike," she sang, hands making unreadable patterns in the air. "Make me forget about the burning, the visions – can I have another to play with?"

"Dru! Christ, you’ve already had two tonight," said a voice Anya knew. "But anything for my princess." Then came a gleam of cheekbones under – well, shortish brown hair was an interesting choice for him, although of course she knew that was his natural colour. Thick leather jacket, awfully familiar; too-tight jeans, also familiar. His own kind of swagger, oh, shit–

"Doctor?" she whispered. "We have more trouble. Because that’s Spike and Drusilla."

"And they are?"

"Vampires. Evil evil. Except Spike really shouldn’t be staked or burnt or dusted in any way, since in 2003 he’s going to save the world after he reforms."

"That _does_ make things more complicated." The Doctor grinned at her. "Brilliant."

Spike and Drusilla’s music got louder, and Spike spun Drusilla away from the door, laughing and calling her 'princess' again. Boy, he sounded drunk – which Anya felt was probably a good thing, might make him less dangerous. Or, possibly, worse...

The male figure down the alleyway stopped, crushed the end of his cigarette under his boot, shook out another cigarette from a pack he unearthed from his jacket. When he flicked his lighter, the flame illuminated his handsome young face briefly – but long enough for Anya to see, to startle, to yearn.

"Doctor?" she said, in a voice far too high for her liking. "The first trouble just got worse. Because that guy going into the warehouse with the TARDIS? Is Rupert Giles, who’s going to be my husband in about twenty-nine years. And, um, he’s going to help save the world a lot too, so he needs to be protected at all costs, and kept away from Spike."

"Oh, that’s handy," the Doctor said, just as he had in her London that afternoon. "He’s an investigator, right? So, hip-hop, off you go to acquire the trigger-tech and keep your future husband from getting killed, figuring out who you are, or doing anything to my TARDIS–"

At which point Lord Lucan, likely tired of being held in a Time Lord’s grip, wrested himself free and took off running (at an appropriately elderly pace) in the other direction.

From behind the open doors Spike and Drusilla’s dance stopped for a beat, frozen like dead hearts, before they started spinning again.

"–And I’ll take care of things ‘round here!" the Doctor finished brightly, before sprinting after Lord Lucan.

Anya looked back down toward Rupert. No, he’d be calling himself Ripper now – and tough, brash Ripper was swaggering his way into the dark cavernous doorway of that warehouse, where there’d been spellcasting and probably drugs, and where now there was the machine that would take her home to him. Her him, not this attractive bad boy....oh crap.

"Note to self: don’t cross the streams," she whispered.

Then she ran.


	2. Chapter 2

God, Rupert was disturbingly gorgeous as a young man, all lanky limbs and high cheekbones and untamed energy. Which wasn’t surprising, but just...disturbing.

Anya stood just outside the open doors in the dark, pondering and, okay, trying not to lust. Rupert – no, she should think of him as Ripper, just to keep the streams separate– was prowling around the tidier of the piles of squatter-material, smoking and drinking the beer he’d pulled from his backpack and humming along with the pirate radio music from Spike and Drusilla’s direction. Bowie again: even though the music had been turned down, she identified the tune as "Rebel Rebel," one of Rupert’s favourites. This was Ripper. Oh hell.

Shaking her head, she turned to business. She had her vintage Pucci scarf in her handbag – she could tie it around her head like the Queen always did, which wasn’t an optimum disguise and also was kind of unattractive, or she could tie it around the lower half of her face. Who was that masked woman... no.

She dug deeper in her bag. Here was that powder of Rupert’s, which only would work in the search for the world-ending device, but what else. Eyeshadow, not really useful at the moment; lipstick, same; two small squares of chocolate, tempting, but for later. Wait –

She pulled out a small vial which held the last drops of a glamour she and Rupert had used on a demon-hunting job in St Albans. This could mask her appearance a bit, but there wasn’t much left, it wouldn’t hold very long.

"Well, it’s not Lethe’s Bramble, but it’ll have to do," she muttered. It didn’t take long to open it, sprinkle the potion onto her fingertips, and smooth it onto her sharp chin and over the tip of her nose, whispering a simple spell. Not much change, really. She hoped it’d be enough.

Rupert... Ripper had stopped prowling-drinking-humming, and was now looking out the door. "Dierdre?" he said. "Phil? Ethan? Where the bloody fuck did you lot go?" Then, to himself: "Didn’t mean to be late, did I, sodding trains...."

Showtime, she further thought.

She took two steps into the edge of the light, making sure to smile as pleasantly as possible. "Hello there!"

He froze with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. "Pardon? Who the sodding hell are you?"

She took a second to appreciate that even Ripper was vaguely courteous before cursing, then said, "Oh, names aren’t important right now. I have a favour to ask you, okay?"

He raised his eyebrows, took a long deliberate drag on his cigarette, tapped the ash onto the floor. "Yeah?"

"Yeah!" She beamed at him. "Now I know this might sound weird, but, um, do you see that blue police box seemingly dropped into that opposite corner? In the shadows, I mean?"

The Doctor _had_ done a nice job of placement, she thought. But of course he was a professional at this time-travel deal, regardless of his problems with accurate dates.

Ripper turned around, and sort of shivered in lieu of jumping back and saying ‘Fucking hell,’ which she could tell he was thinking. When he spoke, however, he sounded unconcerned: "Policemen hiding somewhere about, then? You on the run?"

"No, no. Or, not exactly, although if you’re going to be literal... That police box isn’t actually a police box, and it isn’t from here. Or now. I’m not either."

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in his heart-stopping ‘Hello I’ve a mystery to solve’ pose. "You’re not from here or now?"

"Nope!" She beamed again.

"Christ on a crutch, that fucking Ethan told me I wouldn’t have flashbacks," he muttered.

"You mean, hallucinations? Have you taken hallucinogens beyond the usual inducements for ritual trance?" She cleared her throat so as to lose that extremely sharp note in her voice – which wasn’t really her fault, since Rupert had several times told her that during his youth he’d never done them. Of course, she’d bet he believed it; that man could repress _anything_... "Sorry. Anyway, I promise I’m not a hallucination or drug side-effect of any kind. I mean, you understand magic, don’t you? This is just magic on a, well, grander scale."

He quirked a half-grin, which expression was just as potent on the twenty-year-old Ripper as it was on the fifty-year-old Rupert. "Let’s just look at this magic police box, then."

With his long legs, he got halfway across the warehouse before she could stop him. Some things never changed... she bolted after him. "Don’t touch it, okay?"

He did hold a hand out to the TARDIS, but he didn’t make contact. Another tilt of the head, and then, "Yeah. That’s not from here or now. Feel the energy."

She’d reached him by then, but her momentum meant that she had to grab onto his battered leather jacket to slow herself down, and she wound up almost her nose to his worn polo-neck jumper. This close she could feel that Rupert-heat. He smelled the same under the stale cigarette odour and a hint of beer: all bay rum cologne and soap and a bit of clean, pleasant sweat. The fact that even this rough boy used Rupert’s delicious old-fashioned scent...

Enough distraction. "So you’ll help me? Do me that favour?"

He full-out grinned at her. "Why the fuck not? Might as well pass the time. Seems my friends–" a bitter edge on the word – "have scarpered."

"Great! Great. What we’re looking for is a stolen object of destruction, about so big, which probably has been altered from its original shape. Disguised, I mean, not altered -- it’s still the same thing. Um, I’m guessing you can do a little magic?"

He moved closer, looming attractively. "Little bit."

"Well, I saw the protective circle for working..."

"Not mine. Haven’t been casting here. I’ve been in Oxford a while, just–" He stopped short. "What d’you need?"

Although she’d never gotten the timeline of his running away quite clear – damn his reticence – he must still be at university at this point. The fleeing and Eyghon-summoning and death wasn’t far away, though. But she wrinkled her nose, telling herself that wasn’t anything she could fix. "Okay!" she said brightly. "I need to look in here for an object that’s disguised in some way. Technology, I think, but technology, magic, same thing–"

"Magic’ll work, yeah. Cos it’s all I have."

"There we go." She smiled. "What do you know about this particular powder? Can you identify it?"

He took the vial she handed him and held it overhead to scrutinise it, then sniffed at it. "For _Dissolvere_ , right?"

"Right, to dissolve whatever spell or technological magic-equivalent is holding the object’s disguise." She rummaged in her purse for her notebook. "Here, these are the notes I’ve taken on what we’re looking for – size, possible appearance, blah blah."

"Yeah, good."

When he took the notebook from her, however, she realised that this was unexpectedly dangerous. Not only was the book filled with pages about Rupert’s various middle-aged activities as well as her own, but the volume itself had been a Christmas Winter Solstice gift from him. He’d had her name embossed on the front.

She leapt forward and put her hands over his, in order to keep his fingers from wandering over _Anya Jenkins Giles_. Since his older self could practically absorb information through his fingertips, it might be the same with the younger.

But now, the height, the scent, the same big music-callused hands, the... Rupert-ness – it was all so, so... Never mind. Concentrate, Anya, concentrate.

He looked over the pages at her. "Think I’ve got it, thanks. What’s your name, love?"

She considered and discarded several interesting aliases before saying, "Anne. Or close enough."

"Anne, hello." That was the warm, soft voice she loved.

Oh crap, she thought again, with more feeling. Anyway, she should reciprocate, even though unnecessary-- "What’s yours?"

"Ripper." _Damn_ his smile.

But after a brief, charged caress of her hands as he gave back the notebook, he turned to business too. "Right. What do you think’s the best procedure for this?"

"Search on a grid, maybe?" she said. Her Rupert was obsessive about that; she’d always assumed its orderliness spoke to his archivist-librarian days.

Apparently young Ripper was, too. He scanned the messiest of the areas, then nodded. "Yeah, good." With his boot he scraped some of the magic-circle remnants out of curve and made a smaller circle of ash. "You find anything promising, um, put it here. Keep it safe, test it all at the same time."

The word ‘time’ seemed to echo in that dark damp warehouse, but she told herself she was imagining things.

He walked over and picked up his beer from the floor. After a long swallow during which she watched far too closely the movement of his throat, he licked his lips, turned to her, and smiled. "Fancy a bit?"

"Oh hell yes," she said, and she let the alcohol slide down and ease her jitters.

The next moments passed like a dream. Even as she turned her attention to her task, she was aware of the place – dark, damp, with Spike and Drusilla’s radio now just a quiet heartbeat in the night – and of him. She’d turn over a foul sleeping bag and look at a pillow, then watch him crouch over a pile of clothes. Find an empty bottle to put in the circle, then watch him do the same to a shiny torch. Shake out a woman’s dirty jacket, then watch him test a book...

Then watch him take a folded paper out of the book. She was just close enough to see the superscription 'Ripper'.

He opened it. After just a few seconds, he muttered, "That fucking Ethan," crumpled it up, and heaved it at the opposite wall.

She counted to fifty – because while it was true that she felt entitled to read any mail of Rupert’s unless expressly forbidden to do so, this wasn’t her Rupert – then said, "Bad news?"

"No." After he kicked a long length of metal pipe toward the TARDIS, he dropped a short, broken bit into the circle. Echo, echo, echo.

Only one square left in her grid. As she bent down to search the last pile of trash, she had three separate, unsettling thoughts. One, it was a damn good thing she’d arrived when Ethan and the others were out, because regardless of how aware she was of the importance of not changing the past, if she’d seen sexual contact she’d have smacked a certain amoral teen chaos-mage within an inch of his stupid life; two, it was taking the Doctor a horribly long time to catch one elderly gambler-murderer-jerk; three, she wished Ripper hadn’t been quite so loud, considering that evil Spike was nearby.

She was so busy thinking these thoughts, in fact, that her fingers almost missed the empty wallet amidst the crumpled food wrappers and discarded rolling papers. One touch, however, one spark of alien technology, and she said, "Hey, Ru...Ripper? I think we can stop searching."

"What’d you find?" He crossed to her, then put his hand on her back to steady himself as he bent down. He touched a finger to what wasn’t actually leather, and nodded. "Yeah, reckon you’re right. Let’s take it to the circle."

He caught up the empty wallet-thing before extending a hand to her. As he pulled her up, she almost thought she could feel time itself hitting the concrete like a length of pipe. Echo, echo, echo.

She heard the echo again in her head as he crouched down at the heart of the circle and passed his hands over the wallet-thing. Even before he got out the stoppered vial, there was a shift in the world – magic hitting against hidden matter, echo again.

She crouched beside him and watched him cast the spell, as she’d seen him cast a hundred times before. Then " _Dissolvere_ ," he said, and the false exterior of the wallet shimmered, shattered, and fell apart.

The trigger-tech the Doctor had described – a cylinder big as a man’s palm -- lay humming on the concrete.

"That’s it, innit?" Ripper grinned at her. "Doesn’t look much like a, a ‘weapon of destruction’ to me."

"No. But can’t you _feel_ it?"

"Yeah." His smile died. "Yeah, I can."

She thought the emanations from the thing were cold, deep-space cold, and poisonous, and she didn’t really want to pick it up. But that was her job, at least until the Doctor got back... She gingerly clasped it between forefinger and thumb and placed it in her handbag. "Thank you, Ripper. That was just perfect."

"Right, yeah," he said absently, and he pulled her to her feet as he stood. Close again, and damn his knowing smile, damn it all...

In the echo and rain and quiet she could hear the pirate radio, louder now even though the tune that had just started was a soft one. Seeking distraction, she said, "Oh, I know this song!"

"Yeah, ‘s one of my favourites. Lou Reed." He stepped even closer, his gaze fixed on her mouth just like always before he kissed her, oh crap – "This bit’s good...‘Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side...’"

Before she could decide whether to jump him or explain that was a cheese-filled line even for 1974 and would only work if he sang it, the steel framing the open doors clanged. _Bad_ echo this time.

"Now, now, look what we have here," Spike said from the doorway. "Thought I heard something tasty."

Of course that showboat had to make an appearance, she thought as she stepped in front of Ripper in a vain attempt to block him from view. Of _course_ he did.

Spike was still shadowed, but his hunting smile was clear. He at least hadn’t changed to gameface yet – "Got two for the price of one. Can’t beat a deal like that."

"Please go away," she said hopelessly. "I promise it’s in your own best interest."

Even as Spike prowled closer to the light, Ripper said, "What the fuck do you want, you berk?"

"Honey, honey, let’s not engage," she said, desperately trying to figure out how to explain Spike was a dangerous blood-sucker without using the ‘v’ word and exciting all Ripper’s nascent Watcher tendencies.

And Spike came a step closer. "Ooh, a fighter. Makes it interesting." This was almost a purr, which Anya had always thought a myth of vamp physiology. "What do you think I want, mate?"

Ripper went for the long pipe he’d kicked aside earlier. Spike leapt after him.

To her slight surprise, however, Spike’s pretty face almost immediately collided with Ripper’s expertly wielded improvised weapon, and he fell to his knees, laughing through pain. Sort of mumbling: "Ooh, a fighter indeed. You’re going to be _fun_ , you are."

"Let’s test that theory," Ripper growled, and raised the pipe again.

'Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side' echoed over the rain and Spike’s laughter.

But Anya had a thought. No way out she could see, no way to stay – "Come on," she said firmly, and grabbed Ripper’s free hand. Even as she pulled: "Pipe down, Ripper, follow me."

"What–"

"Don’t question me." She’d already gotten them both to the TARDIS. Whispering an invocation to who knew what, she pressed on the door, which swung open. "Inside."

"I don’t think so," Spike said from far too close. He grabbed at her, hand on her arm–

"Don’t fucking touch her," Ripper said as he smashed his pipe into Spike’s throat again.

Only a second of slackened vampire grip, but that was enough. Anya dragged Ripper across the threshold and slammed home the door. She’d have asked him to help her hold it shut against vampire predation – although she thought this was the Doctor’s home and therefore inviolate without an invitation – but the lock snicked shut on its own.

Okay. TARDIS control room in half-light, green and pulsing, enclosed and oddly silent. Her handbag with trigger-tech, present and safe. Ripper present and safe, even with the length of pipe in his hand, and apparently gobsmacked.

Gently he released the pipe to the floor, then turned around in a circle, his mouth open. "Bloody hell, love, this is a sodding _time_ machine."

"I told you that already," she said.

"I know you did, but...Christ, it’s bigger on the inside. And it’s beautiful." Before she could agree, he smiled at her. "So are you. The real you is prettier than that shell you were sporting."

"What?" Her hands went to her nose and chin. _Her_ nose and chin, oh crap.

He was looming attractively again. "Yeah. _Dissolvere_ didn’t just work on that alien weapon. Your glamour went up quick as fire."

She clutched at his coat, although whether to keep him off or herself upright, she couldn’t have said. "Um, Ripper, I can explain..."

"‘m not stupid, love. You’re from another time, you don’t want me to recognize you – makes me think I’ll know you. And you didn’t even blink when that sodding vamp came after us." He took another step closer.

Choosing among the horrifying implications of everything he’d said: "You knew he was a vampire?" This came out far too shrill. She took a step back and found herself against the TARDIS wall, bathed in green and pulse...

"Yeah. Well, I did once I hit him with a pipe and he got back up." He couldn’t get any closer, it was all heat and Rupert-ness, familiar and yet so strange.

She’d told the Doctor she wasn’t good at improvising, she couldn’t make up elaborate alternate stories, she’d screwed up – "Stop, stop. I’m not supposed to cross the streams, I was explicitly instructed not to."

"Haven’t a fucking clue what that means. Hold still." And then he put his hands on the wall by her head, rested his weight on her, and kissed her.

It was like riding a demon-tiger, she decided – his youth and lean muscle and utter wildness. She could feel the difference in him, the ripple of magicks and testosterone he couldn’t yet fully control, as his mouth took hers and his body began a twist-and-slide, one thigh going between her legs. His cock was getting harder with every stroke against her belly.

God, it was good. Apparently young Ripper liked impromptu shagging up against a wall as much as his older self did. And she wanted to ride, to let the tiger loose.

But even as she kissed him in return, even as her hands explored those delicious differences in his body, her mind was shrieking at her. _The Doctor’s going to be back soon. This isn’t your Rupert, don’t cross the streams._ And, loudest, _You punished infidelity for a thousand years, but what is this?_

She told her mind to shut the hell up. She sucked on his tongue. She let him slide one hand under her skirt, cupping her bottom, and let him tease one long finger underneath her G-string–

_Doctor back soon. Not your Rupert. This is infidelity. Wrong wrong wrong,_ echo echo echo.

Shoving him back, she panted, "I’m so, so sorry, but I’m married."

"What?" He sounded confused, sex-high, very young. "But–"

"No, I can’t. I mean, not intercourse, it’s just wrong."

"Oh Christ." He sort of collapsed, leaning all his weight against the wall, bracing himself on forehead and palms.

But he lifted his lower body away from her. Gentleman, even here and now, even when cock-teased (which had certainly not been her intention).

Anya turned her head to look at him. In the green and pulse and shadows, his eyes looked so green too, his face pulled so pain-tight as he fought for control. It was all too familiar, lost in the time-stream.

She couldn’t help herself. "But, Ripper, I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind if I made sure you were okay."

"What?"

"Just stay there."

She’d left her handbag on the TARDIS floor. Even with her own arousal-related shakiness, it only took a second to find and retrieve her silk scarf, only took another couple of seconds to return to him. "Now, honey, just let it happen. Anyway you’re only twenty, I’m sure you don’t have the same stamina."

" _What_?"

She knew that voice. But she forestalled further difficult Gilesian questions by licking his neck just where he liked best, and when he shuddered and closed his eyes, she was able to send her hands down to his zipper. He was hot underneath the denim, and hard, and so very tempting – she couldn’t think about that. Instead she unbuckled and unzipped, and brought him out, wrapped him in the silk. He muttered something undistinguishable but encouraging. She could make him happier, though–

She found that one spot just along the vein and rubbed her thumb over it, silk caressing silk.

"Oh God, oh Christ, feels so good–"

"I know, honey." And from there it was only a matter of a few hard strokes until he shuddered again, gasped, and came in the scarf.

She told herself that her Pucci had been sacrificed in an excellent cause.

Once she was sure he could stand alone, she went back to her handbag – she had a couple of plastic bags stowed away in case of David-emergencies, she could keep the stained scarf there. After she’d taken care of it, however, her knees gave out. She sat on the floor, handbag in her lap, and closed her eyes against green and pulse and the sight of Ripper, languid and still unzipped, leaning back against the wall.

From here she could hear the cold hum of the unmasked trigger-tech – or maybe that was time in the TARDIS. It was cold in here, too. Time seemed to have frozen.

She didn’t open her eyes until Ripper touched her hair and said quietly, "You all right, love?"

She smiled up at him (put together once more). "Yeah, mostly. How ‘bout you?"

"Brilliant. Er, thank you."

"My pleasure... well, not _entirely_ , but close enough for time-travel. Now, will you help me up?"

She left the handbag on the floor when he pulled her to her feet.

They stood like that for a moment, just sort of smiling at each other, before he cleared his throat in a very Rupert-like way. "Er, d’you want me to stay with you until – who’s that bloke you’re waiting for?"

"The Doctor."

"Right, the Doctor. Until he gets back?"

"No. No, thanks, I can only stand so much temptation." She patted his chest briskly while he grinned at her. "But let’s check to see if you can leave. In my knowledge of...um, that vamp... he doesn’t have the attention-span for a long surveillance outside a time-machine. Still, just in case, do you also know a different way to get out of the warehouse?"

"Backdoor, yeah. No need to risk anything – since now I know you’ll be along eventually."

"No, Ripper, that’s not the proper attitude. I wasn’t supposed to cross the streams--"

But, still grinning, he tapped her nose in a familiar affectionate way, and she shut up.

The warehouse was empty when they poked their heads outside the TARDIS. Still dark, still raining, with mist swirling inside, but quiet now without that backbeat of pirate radio. "Coast’s clear," she said.

His hand enfolded hers, and together they went outside. After he dropped the pipe on the ground, he led her around the police box to a door set into concrete, which she’d never have found on her own.

Before he went through it, however, she stopped him. "Okay, Ripper, you need to promise me that you’ll do your extraordinary best to repress the memory of this evening."

He laughed and leaned forward to kiss her one more time, all heat and youth and wildness. Then he said, "See you later, love," and swaggered out into rain and dark on the other side.

Sighing, she shut the door behind him and then allowed herself to sag against the rust-touched steel. It was cold, and damp, and she was alone in 1974. She wanted to go home.

To herself she sang a little mournfully, "‘Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side...’"

"Are you singing for the stars, dolly?" Drusilla said from behind her.

Oh damn.

Anya turned around, but kept her eyes averted from Drusilla’s face – she’d heard bad things about thrall, she didn’t need any more messing with her head than she’d already had today. "Yes, I am. Go away."

"Mmm. This box is singing too, all about other stars and blood and loss, nothing but blood and loss. Isn’t it delicious?" Drusilla began to sway forward, hands doing that dance of suggestion and surrender which would have been graceful in another context.

But as it was, Anya jumped off the wall, heading for the other side of the TARDIS. She had no time for vampires, not at all, and there was a clear lane to freedom.

Drusilla leapt too. Close, too close, nails scraping down Anya’s back. "Wait, little dolly! You’re a shapeshifter, you aren’t going to taste as innocent as I thought...."

"Then let me go!" Anya made it to the front of the police box–

Before Drusilla’s hands caught her shoulder and pushed her onto the floor. The concrete tore at Anya’s hands, at her knees through the stockings cut to ribbons, and pain oozed like blood.

"No, no, blood and loss taste the best," Drusilla purred – _again_ with the vampire-purring, Anya thought irrelevantly – and crouched beside her. "If you fight, I’ll like it better. Please fight, dolly."

Anya shoved hard against black velvet coldness, crawled for the TARDIS door again, made a good but hopeless wish.

From outside the warehouse came the sounds of running feet and disturbed puddles. More than one person, probably – and Drusilla pulled away. "My Spike?" she called.

The Doctor, pulling a drenched and stumbling Lord Lucan, appeared in the open warehouse doorway. "Hello there!" he said brightly. "Yes, your Spike’ll be along shortly."

More running feet, getting closer.

The Doctor seemed unconcerned. "Anya, did you get the item we needed?"

"Yes, Doctor. It’s safe inside the TARDIS."

"Good." He dropped Lord Lucan just inside the doorway. "Now you pop in too, all right?"

"But–" Anya easily evaded another Drusilla-grasp, the vampire seemed momentarily dazed– "don’t you need help?"

"I said, get inside." That voice, cold and old and angry, was enough to send her scrambling.

She kicked Drusilla hard enough to drive the vamp a few feet away, which let her get to the door and safely over the threshold. The TARDIS interior lights were all on, now that the driver was almost home, which made it hard to see outside – but she peered out anyway.

Yep, Spike had arrived. He and the Doctor now circled each other, with Lord Lucan in the middle wheezing and trying to push himself up. "So who are you, then?" Spike said in his most obnoxiously smooth manner. "Lot of coming and going in this quiet neighbourhood, you meet the strangest people."

"You have no idea." The Doctor still sounded cold, but he was hiding the anger better.

"Doctor," Anya called, "are you sure you don’t need my help?"

Over Drusilla’s hiss and futile grab for the TARDIS door, the Doctor said, "Quite sure, and rule one – don’t bother me when I’m busy with vampires and slippery murderers."

"Okay. Just checking," she said.

"Who’s the murderer here?" Spike said, and kicked at Lord Lucan, who twitched and fell over. "This old man? Couldn’t hurt a sodding fly."

"Appearances are deceiving. Things and worlds change," the Doctor said. "Drusilla, what do you think?"

Drusilla had already begun to back away, her hands held out as a barrier. "Shapeshifters, shapeshifters.... but _your_ blood’s old, your blood’s poison. Spike, he’s not _right_."

"I wouldn’t be at all surprised." Weariness was lost in the Doctor’s chill. "Now, if you’ll excuse me–"

But Spike growled, leapt, and almost got the Doctor by the throat. Gameface now, low growl louder than the rain, another leap–

Straight into Ripper’s pipe, now wielded by the Doctor.

Just like before, Spike dropped to his knees, laughing. "You think that’ll stop me?"

"No. Only you can stop you," the Doctor said.

Gameface, deeper growl – but Drusilla all but flew to Spike’s side. "No, Spike, don’t drink the poison."

"Exactly!" the Doctor said with that false cheer. He wrapped his hand in Lord Lucan’s jacket and pulled him almost to his feet. "Time to go, I think."

When Spike tried to stand up too, Drusilla held on. "For me, Spike. No, no, no...."

The beat of Drusilla’s negations only stopped when the TARDIS door shut behind the Doctor.

Lord Lucan, white-faced and holding his ribs, collapsed in the deepest shadows. "What happened to him, besides Spike kicking him?" Anya said.

The Doctor shrugged. "It’s been a busy evening, up town and down town and _not_ getting to my lady’s chambers, oh no – although I understand where the phrase ‘doing a Lord Lucan’ comes from. Slippery, very slippery." He went to the controls, fiddled around with knobs and settings, then grinned at Anya. "Thing is, I’m slippery too."

"I believe it," she said.

The Doctor laughed as the TARDIS made its alien travelling noise. They were underway almost before Anya could register it.

Lord Lucan said hoarsely, all Siviter-arrogance gone, "But what are you going to do to me?"

" _To_ you?" the Doctor said. "Nothing. Once we get back to the other side of the Void, Lucan, I’ll drop you off on that planet where you’ve been hiding – exile you’ve already chosen."

"But, but..." Lord Lucan tried to formulate a response, but obviously words had slipped away too.

"But let’s look at this trigger-tech, shall we?" the Doctor said. "Anya?"

She dug in her handbag – pushing aside the baggie with a stained scarf, pushing aside memory – and pulled out the device. "Here you go. Uncloaked and everything."

The Doctor bounded over, crouched down, touched the device with a gentle finger. "Ah yes. I remember this dark thing. Time Lords might not claim it, but it’s theirs. _Was_ theirs." He looked sad again, deep-space cold and alone, until he shivered all over like a wet dog and smiled again. Digging in his overcoat: "And it’s mine now to destroy."

Lord Lucan made a noise, then subsided. The Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver – yes, _very_ obnoxiously phallic– and touched it with its blue tip.

In a weird visual ripple of time, the exterior of the device shimmered, shattered, and fell apart. Essence was lost just like its shell had been.

"Well, there’s that done," the Doctor said briskly, before looking over at her. "Nasty scrapes there, Anya. Everything else all right? Any difficulty with your tasks?"

"Um, no. Everything went pretty smoothly, albeit almost all at once." She beamed at him, ignoring the little voice which reminded her of those few glitches with Ripper. "Mostly, anyway."

"Good! Good." He got up and hopped back over to the console, then began to play with the controls without really touching them. Without looking up: "Lucky I ran into you today."

"Yes. We at the firm of Investigations and Acquisitions are always happy to help. Well, again, mostly ...I am assuming you’ll get me home now, though," she said. "Time-travel’s really not as fun as some people would think."

"Right, yes." He poked at the console. "Tegan."

"Stop calling me that."

He grinned, and it was the fakest thing she’d ever seen; depressed hair again, too. She added, because she couldn’t help it, "Um, Doctor, what are you going to do? Are you all right?"

"Got to drop Lord Lucan off, of course, and then I’ve got those last cracks in the Void-walls to seal. It’s...anyway, lots of things to do, lots of time to do them in." Then, more softly, "I’m always all right."

He was such a time-travelling liar. But Anya nursed her own hurts and let his rest.

After only a few missed dates – 1987, 2010, 2001 – he managed to get her back to November 8, 2006, even to the same alley. When she opened the TARDIS door, it was almost dusk and raining hard, drops practically bouncing off the pavement. Echo echo echo....

"Goodbye, Anya. Thank you," the Doctor said from behind her.

"Goodbye, Doctor," she said. But something about that sad, boyish ferret-face compelled her... She dug into her handbag one more time, and pulled out one of her squares of chocolate. "I think you need it more than I do – here you go!"

The grin that spread over his face was worth it.

When the TARDIS had gone, Anya ducked into a convenient shelter and punched in ‘Andrew, work’ on her mobile. When he answered, she said, "Hey, Andrew? I’m on my way – you guys are still at the office, right? But have the first-aid kit ready."

" _Anya_ , are you okay?" Andrew said.

"Scraped up badly, but yes, more than okay. Except... except I have a pop-culture question for you..."

..................................................

The impact of her toddling son on her scrapes is enough to wake Anya from memory. "David, ouch!"

"Mum, mum," David says at her knees, his face gone red with imminent tears and present frustrated exhaustion.

"I think I know a little boy who needs to go to bed," Rupert says, and he comes around the sofa to catch David up in his arms.

Anya blinks. Night rain, still cold and hard against the windows, but the Bowie’s not playing. "What happened to the music?"

Rupert raises his eyebrows. "I turned it off after you didn’t complain."

"Honey, that makes absolutely no sense."

Laughing, he says, "Darling, you’ve been somewhere else for the past few minutes. I know you’re annoyed when I ask this, but are you all right?"

"Um, yes. That _is_ annoying."

David pulls with insistent little fists at Rupert’s black jumper. "Daddy, daddy," he says, eyes screwed shut against the light.

"Hold on, son." Rupert kisses his temple, then smiles down at her. "I’ll pop this one in bed, and then–" his voice drops, low and suggestive, "I’ll come back and take you to bed."

"I admit I’m kind of tired, honey. I’ll put myself completely in your hands." After all, she is owed a pleasure-moment.

His eyes spark – no, they go green, like time has frozen. "Right. See you later," he says, and then swaggers out of sight. But he’s humming, and it doesn’t take her more than a few notes to identify the tune.

'Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side....'

Smiling, she stretches into the aches and thinks about what Andrew had told her about _Ghostbusters_. "Well, it’s true that the first part of the movie teaches us that you’re not supposed to cross the streams. But in the end, it’s actually _essential_ to cross the streams in order to save the world."

She stretches again, smiles wider at nothing, and sends a good wish to the Doctor, wherever he is.


End file.
